


Unison

by hippocrates460



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mycroft and Greg sing, Slow Dating, Some texting, brief mention of Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 09:12:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18049694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippocrates460/pseuds/hippocrates460
Summary: Or: A story about how two piperscanget on in one tavern.Sometimes, you have to do something for yourself. Greg decides to sign up for the London's Gay Men's Chorus in a flash of insight that he hasn't really had gay friends since college and then promptly forgets about it again. Until he gets a call about being at the top of the waiting list. Of course he's still interested.





	Unison

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Lilian as always, for the humour and the help. You're amazing.

“Just ask Myc,” Mycroft hears as he’s hanging his coat. Looks like someone forgot their reading glasses again.

“Mike?” A strangely hard to place voice sounds. Familiar, though.

“Yeah,” David’s booming voice sounds. “He always brings a spare.”

Mycroft follows the noise, already feeling around in his pocket for his own glasses as well as the other pair. He’s holding the box out when he notices a new face.

New to the Chorus that is.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he greets, holding out his hand. Lestrade shakes it happily.

“Good to see you. And call me Greg, please, I’m off duty.”

“Please don’t call me ‘Myc’,” Mycroft offers a small smile. “Only David gets to do that.” He passes the glasses without further comment.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Lestrade, it’s just that this is the one part of his life where he gets to be a person. Not the boss, not the intelligence officer, and absolutely not a family member. It has been so long that he’d started to trust that his one respite might remain free of responsibilities beyond showing up and singing along.

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade winks and smiles, then turns back to their other new member. They talk amongst themselves while Mycroft takes his usual place between the other baritones.

Before rehearsal starts, Lestrade and the other new fellow, Oscar, are introduced. They warm up, rehearse songs they know, to get back into things, then start on a new song.

After rehearsal, David leads a crowd of them to the pub. Mycroft chats with the new guy about his work (bartender) and his studies (anthropology) until he can sit with David and ask him about his holidays, his kids, how his back is doing. He doesn’t even notice Lestrade sitting in the booth with them until he hears the same low chuckle again.

“Is there a problem?” He asks icily, one eyebrow raised.

Greg shakes no, handing him back the glasses. Sips his beer.

“Do you have any children?” David asks, to break the tension.

Lestrade – Greg, laughs, “I don’t.”

“Are you not married?” Mycroft can’t seem to keep his voice friendly when addressing him.

Greg laughs harder. “Did Sherlock tell you that? No, I was never married.” Mycroft can’t help the blush that threatens to stain his cheeks and neck red. Sherlock had been going on for months about the unhappy marriage Greg was in but Mycroft should know better by now than to trust Sherlock’s deductions blindly.

“I was asked to wear a ring for PR reasons.”

Mycroft tries to apologize but David’s husband Martin is faster. “You’ve met the illusive Sherlock?” He asks, leaning over the table.

“Oh, have I ever,” Greg grins, his tone gossipy. Then he switches to serious, “I work with him. He’s difficult but also the most brilliant detective I’ve ever met.”

Again, Greg is more gracious than Mycroft would’ve been. The blush is well and proper happening now. He turns back to David to ask about Mia’s dance lessons. People drift in and out of conversations, moving between tables, getting up to get drinks or say hi to someone, and Mycroft lets it happen. He’s used to it. He barely notices until he’s sitting next to Greg.

“I didn’t...” Greg looks at him with open chocolate-coloured eyes, “I didn’t know you would be here, I didn’t mean to invade your space.”

Mycroft shakes his head. “You aren’t unwelcome, I am being...” he looks for a better word but can’t find one. “Ungracious.”

Greg smiles warmly. Pats his arm. Good god the man is too nice. “Do you want me to stay away? I could sit with other people. I didn’t know what to say about Sherlock and I wouldn’t want to...”

“No,” Mycroft says quickly, “no, that won’t be necessary. You surprised me, that’s all.” He tries to look at Greg’s face as he speaks but finds it hard. Dammit.

“The only topic I’d rather not discuss here is my work. I should thank you for what you said about Sherlock, that was...”

“The truth,” Greg promises. “He’s a fantastic help. He just needs a friend, which will happen any day now. I’m sure of it.”

Mycroft can’t believe it, even if Sherlock’s been mostly sober for a while now, and seems to be looking for a place to live that has more to offer than four walls and a barely-intact roof. He nods anyway.

“No talk of Sherlock,” Greg decides, “no talk of work. How long have you been with the chorus?”

They end up having a pleasant conversation until it’s time to go for both of them. They’ll need to be sharp and awake in the morning.

 

Despite the slightly rocky start, Greg becomes a part of the little group of people that Mycroft spends his time at the chorus with. David of course, his partner Martin, two baritones that Mycroft sings with - Alex and Jacob, a handful of Martin’s friends from outside the chorus, some people that circle in and out. Greg gets along especially with David and Callum, a hairdresser from Scotland. Mycroft catches him staring every now and then, but it’s never unfriendly. At some point they have a solo together, and they spend a bit of time together outside of the chorus. Then the solo is done, and that stops. A year passes.

 

***

 

One day as Greg is standing in the rain at a crime scene that Sherlock dropped in on, then ran away from while shouting about types of mud, a non-descript black car pulls up.

“Go,” Sally urges, “it’s probably brass wanting to talk to you, I’ll finish up here.”

Greg squeezes her shoulder gratefully, then walks over to the car. He’s barely opened the door when he notices that inside is Mycroft.

“I’m here to offer you a ride,” Mycroft says in greeting, and Greg can’t help but smile. No matter how many times Greg sees Mycroft shift between confident competence and eye-watering awkwardness, it stays endearing.

“You’re a star,” he promises, crowding into the car and sighing as he feels the heated leather seat.

“I estimated that you should be done by now,” Mycroft starts to ramble, staring firmly at Greg’s forehead, “and we should be fine to make it to rehearsal on time, but if you wish to change or pick something up at...”

Greg stops him with a hand on his leg and Mycroft’s eyes flicker down to meet his. “Let’s go sing.”

Mycroft deals with the driver, which reminds Greg of the last time he was in one of Mycroft’s cars. He can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in him. Mycroft makes a small noise as if he wants to ask what’s funny but doesn’t know how and Greg’s chest almost bursts with fondness.

“Just thinking of the last time we drove someplace together,” he explains, and Mycroft’s face falls for a second before he realizes that Greg has long forgiven him.

“I should hope rehearsal is less – less draughty than the warehouse,” Mycroft jokes, stilted but warm.

Greg hums, “and there are chairs so we won’t have to stand.”

“Should I have brought a chair?” Mycroft asks, all faux-innocence.

 

***

 

When Greg texts Mycroft on a horrible day in January that Sherlock has brought a _friend_ to a crime scene, Mycroft feels his nose twitch. Anthea picks up on it from across the hall and raises an eyebrow at him. Within three seconds a car is on its way to pick up Dr Watson.

 

17:23

I sent a car over.

 

17:23

Please don’t forget the chair, and maybe some warm underwear if the warehouse is as cold as the rest of the city.

 

17:24

You’re funny. I’ll see you tonight.

 

17:56

Fair warning: I’m on my way to Baker street to go steal back some evidence.

 

18:02

Dr Watson incoming, let me know if you need help with the paperwork. Drug bust forms are filed under E254.

 

18:03

You’re a star.

 

18:12

[image attached]

 

18:54

Found the suitcase! Can’t believe you actually got him a chair.

 

20:03

Roland Kerr Further Education College

 

20:03

Please hurry.

 

When Mycroft makes it to the college, having urged his driver to go faster, _faster_ , from all the way across town, he sees Sherlock wrapped in a blanket, Greg next to him, Dr Watson too. He takes a few deep breaths, pushes away his panic, and walks up to Sherlock.

He makes it back to the car before his eyes start stinging. Too close. They got too close. And it wasn’t even drugs this time. He is just about to tell the driver to take him home, when there’s a tap on the window. The door opens before he can do anything, and Greg joins him on the back seat, nudging him until he slides across to the other side.

“You look like you had a rough day,” Greg tells him, open honest eyes. “I’m just about done here, and I have a feeling our mystery shooter will remain a mystery regardless.”

Mycroft nods. Dr Watson is exceptionally loyal towards his little brother already, he can stay.

“Mycroft,” his tone is gentle. Too nice, so nice, Mycroft’s eyes prickle again and he stares resolutely at Greg’s right ear as he turns a little in his seat. “I can’t make this easier, but I can offer you a hug.”

Before he knows it, Mycroft feels his face fall, his lip quiver, and strong warm arms wrap around him. He smells nice too. It’s absolutely hateful. He exhales shakily and lets himself relax.

“I really think,” Greg rumbles in Mycroft’s ear, “that this might be the friend we’ve been waiting for.”

Mycroft nods against his shoulder and finds himself wishing with his whole body that Greg would come home with him. They could watch a movie, have a drink, talk where it’s comfortable and safe. He’d rub Greg’s feet. Cook him dinner. Buy him exotic holidays.

“Let me wrap up here,” Greg suggests, “and pick up some take out. I doubt you ate. You go home, and I’ll come over.”

It’s so close to what Mycroft was wishing for that it takes him a moment to process these real words. Said out loud.

“I’ll cook,” he croaks, “if – if vegetarian risotto would be alright.”

Greg leans back and smiles happily at him. “That sounds great. I’d offer to bring wine but I doubt you feel as strongly about Sainsbury’s finest as I do.”

It’s a great set-up, they both know it, and Mycroft aches with gratitude. “I am quite confident my intense dislike of it outshines your fondness.”

They both laugh, and Greg slides out of the car. “I’ll be right behind you.”

 

On the way home, Mycroft leans back and lets his mind fixate on dinner. The Barolo is open already but the dried porcini will have to soak. He can change while he’s waiting for that. Greg will take between 17 and 32 minutes to finish up at the crime scene, depending on the weather and Sergeant Donovan’s mood. The wine he’ll be serving it with will be done breathing by that time. He has proper parmigiano.

 

He showers away the day and gets to cooking. Puts on the radio and gets so absorbed in what he’s doing that he startles when a car stops in front of the house. Time flew by but his mind is clear, he’s ready.

 

***

 

When Greg pulls in, he’s more irritated than he was an hour earlier. Sally was rude, Anderson was awful, some child that joined the force last month cried. He knows that he smells and looks rumpled and part of him wants to go home and crawl into bed with some wine. The rest of him wants to see Mycroft, so he heaves himself out of his car, runs across the wet street in the rain, lets himself in. He’s waved on by the doorman and makes his way up.

 

Mycroft opens the door dressed in a soft sweater, a pale blue button down underneath, soft cotton trousers. He looks edible. His feet are bare. Greg bites his tongue as he smiles in greeting to not surge forward and kiss him.

 Mycroft smiles back, looks at him, up and down, and steps aside to let him in. When Greg is zipping open his coat, Mycroft clears his throat.

“If you’d wish to... freshen up, or - or shower, I’m sure I could find you something to wear after?” He sounds hesitant. Greg stares at him, tries to keep the adoration off his face.

“I’d love that, but only if I’m not spoiling dinner by taking even longer.”

“Dinner is ready in 7 minutes but will keep for another 15 at least,” Mycroft tells the floor, cheeks a little pink. “Of course if you’d need longer than that I could stretch it but the optimal taste of the...”

Greg puts his hand on Mycroft’s arm. “Perfect. Thank you. You’re saving my life, I hope you know it.”

 

Greg joins Mycroft in the kitchen 12 minutes later, dressed in soft pyjamas that are a bit long but mostly very comfortable. The whole flat smells like mushrooms and warmth and comfort. He sits down where Mycroft tells him to and accepts a glass of wine. _He’s perfect_ , thinks Greg, as he takes a bite of the food. He drinks his wine and basks in the warmth and comfort of Mycroft’s presence.

 

***

 

Things change after that. Greg sits next to him every time. They start up a Thursday dinner with some people from the choir, and while the others drift in and out, Mycroft and Greg don’t miss a single one. When it’s Greg’s turn to host and Mycroft shows up after they’ve finished eating, finished the dishes even, everyone else gets up as one to go.

“Lovely to see you Myc,” David grins, and with a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek, he leaves. Once Martin has come back for his phone, which he leaves behind almost every time, and left both Greg and Mycroft another kiss, Mycroft catches Greg looking at him. A curious look on his face.

“Should I go?” Mycroft asks, unsure what he’s done to deserve that little wrinkle between Greg’s eyes. “I’m sorry for the time.”

“No,” Greg decides, “I know you had work. Sit.” He takes the bottle of wine from Mycroft and pours them both a glass. Gets Mycroft some food even though Mycroft tries to tell him he’s eaten (he hasn’t), that he isn’t hungry (he is). Mycroft gets wine, and a sweater when he shivers, and when it’s really too late for him to stay anymore, Greg makes him keep the sweater. Even though Mycroft tries to tell him he’s feeling better already (he isn’t).

They talk while Greg helps him into his coat, then by the door, and then by the car, until another hour has passed and Mycroft’s face feels numb with fatigue.

“Go,” Greg whispers, opening the door for Mycroft, fondness radiating out through his eyes. Mycroft feels his eyes shine back and much as he wants to feel Greg’s breath on his cheek as he kisses him goodnight, he wants something else more.

“I’ll see you Monday,” he croaks, and Greg nods. He smiles like he knows something Mycroft doesn’t, and right before Mycroft folds into the car, he kisses him. Quickly, sweetly. There’s nothing Mycroft can do but watch the door close, see the light in Greg’s eyes as they drive away.

He touches his lips carefully, to be sure it’s real. Smells Greg on his borrowed sweater.

“Sir?” Goes his driver. “Your seatbelt.” Right.

 

***

 

Everything is warmer now, Greg muses when he walks to work the next day. He barely slept, but he feels awake and alive. The trees are budding, there’s something different about the light. Spring is coming.

 

He comes up with things he wants to tell Mycroft at least five times an hour, and tries to limit himself to twice a day. He fails, but then so does Mycroft. At night they text for hours, on Sunday Mycroft flies to Korea and his fancy plane comes with WiFi, so they text all day. Greg learns more about Korean culture than he ever expected to know, and Mycroft gets a full play-by-play of the match that’s on. His cheeks hurt with grinning, his stomach feels tight.

 

“Does this mean you won’t be there tomorrow?” Greg asks, when he’s lying in bed that night. He hasn’t heard from Mycroft in two hours, the longest they’ve gone all day. He reads over his last messages, to see if there’s something that maybe put Mycroft off. It’s just about what he’s eating. The movie he watched.

His phone buzzes with a new message. “Of course not.” And Greg is smiling again. “I’m on my way back already.”

“You went to Korea for a two-hour meeting?” Greg texts him, when the eye-rolling emoji comes back he laughs so hard his neighbours probably think him insane.

 

***

17:32

How’d you want to do things tonight?

 

17:33

I’m not sure I understand the question.

 

17:45

Can I kiss you when I see you?

 

Mycroft has to think on that for a long time. All the way through the dinner he takes at his desk in fact. A part of him wants nothing more. Another part tells him it’s early days, mustn’t seem too eager, think of the grief of telling people why you’re not getting greeted with a kiss anymore? He thinks on it so hard that he can’t read anymore, and ends up getting to the chorus almost twenty minutes early. Greg walks in not a minute later.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, and Mycroft shakes no, he couldn’t not kiss Greg if he tried. He walks closer and let’s his hands drift to Greg’s face like they want to, shivers with anticipation when Greg places a warm hand on his stomach, a bit to the side. Possessive and sweet.

“Hello,” he whispers into the kiss, and he feels Greg smile.

 

_Do you love me?_ Thinks Mycroft when Greg gets him a glass of the good whiskey and slides in with him at the bar, after the singing. His chest feels warm and open. _Do you love me?_

There’s some teasing from the others, some looks from people they don’t know all that well, but mostly pride. Pride in Greg’s shoulders, pride in Martin’s eyes. Pride in the way Callum comes over just to squeeze his elbow.

 

***

 

Mycroft leans in for a kiss goodbye from David, after dinner. It was Mycroft’s turn, and Greg is lingering. He has work tomorrow, but he can’t bring himself to leave. He stares at the way Mycroft looks with his shoes and jacket off, soft and human. The way he turns his cheek into the contact of a friend, content and cat-like. His eyes closed with joy.

“Can I stay?” he tries to ask, and it comes out like a high-pitched squeak. Mycroft turns to him with the strangest look on his face.

“Yes,” he says, “yes, please.”

They turn off the lights and walk up the stairs together. Old wooden floors with soft carpets everywhere. It fits Mycroft so perfectly that Greg wants to cry. It’s awkward to stand in the bedroom together, surrounded by the smell of evening coming in through the open windows, and the knowledge of what is coming. Greg steps in very close and kisses Mycroft as deep as he dares. When he leans back to check if they’re still on the same page, Mycroft’s eyes are dark and serious. They keep kissing as they slowly undress each other, hanging their clothes over the back of the chair that stands in the corner. They don’t bother with the light, enough comes in around the dark curtains from outside.

When they’re in the bed together, half under the covers, Greg sits back to look at the picture of Mycroft, legs wide to have Greg fit between them. He’s so gorgeous Greg wants to eat him alive and he can’t help but pick up Mycroft’s hand and bite it.

“What was that?” Mycroft laughs, and it makes his stomach move.

“Tasting you,” Greg smiles back. He does it to the other hand too, then blows a loud raspberry on the inside of a soft creamy thigh, that has Mycroft twitch and gasp, then laugh until he can’t breathe.

“Stop,” he begs while Greg kisses him all over, laughing too much to do anything more than sloppy wet mouthing in places.

“I love you,” falls out of Greg’s mouth and they tumble over each other, and kiss until they’re tired. They fall asleep like that, unsure in the dark where they end or begin.

 

***

 

Mycroft wakes up around three in the morning, judging by the sounds of traffic. He likes this time of night, loves being awake when almost no one else is. Especially wrapped up in Greg’s arms as he is. He pulls the bedsheets up so they cover his shoulder better, and Greg mumbles something in his sleep that makes him look up. He looks calm and happy. Dark eyelashes against his cheek. They’ll have to wake up early in the morning if Greg wants a chance to change before work. Greg moves one of his arms, pushing the sheets down and exposing his whole torso in the process, and Mycroft can’t believe his luck at being able to – _allowed_ to look. The hair on his chest, how it trails down, his penis, half-hard against his thigh. While Mycroft is looking his fill, Greg pulls him in closer, and shifts to expose most of a firm thigh. Mycroft’s mouth is dry. He half hopes Greg won’t wake up, because he won’t be able to hide how aroused he is, the other half – shit. Mycroft startles, more violently than he would have liked, when Greg presses a kiss to the top of his head. He looks up, knowing full well his cheeks are bright and his eyes are hungry.

“You alright?” Greg whispers, fond and sleepy.

“More than,” Mycroft promises, “you?”

Greg just hums and moves his hips, a clear invitation to keep looking. He’s almost all the way hard now, and Mycroft kisses his way down his chest, settles between his legs. One lick and Greg is straining, another and his hands are twisted in the sheets. Mycroft makes a show of licking his balls first, then kisses his way up to the head, and takes it into his mouth.

Greg moves his hips some more, involuntarily, from the face he’s making, and Mycroft hums his approval.

“My balls,” Greg croaks, and so Mycroft leans up on one hand, and uses the other to draw figures on Greg’s still spit-slick balls. They tighten and move, and Greg moans and cries. “Darling – soon.”

Mycroft hums again, and doubles down on his sucking, moving his head up and down a little, and pulling at the tight skin of Greg’s balls. Greg comes with one long groan, rumbling and deep, his face twisted, his cheeks red. When Mycroft has swallowed and licked the last drops off of Greg’s cock, Greg opens first one eye, then the other.

“C’mere,” he mumbles, and Mycroft leans up for a shy kiss. Then a less shy one when Greg seems to be enjoying this too. “Up up up,” Greg demands, until Mycroft is kneeling over his face. Greg gives his balls a few licks, and Mycroft wraps a shaking hand around his cock, until Greg urges him to hold his balls too. Surely not...

“This ok?” Greg mumbles, between tentative licks to Mycroft’s perineum and then down. Mycroft is quite beyond words, has to hold on to the headboard to not collapse right onto Greg’s face. “Mycroft?”

“Ye-yeah,” he manages, “yes, very.” He cries out when Greg parts his cheeks and dives in like he’s a feast, and the wet onslaught to his sensitive skin, the memory of the way Greg looks while coming, it’s almost too much. Greg works at his skin until Mycroft is prickling all over, sweat running down his back. He’ll have a cramp in his hand from how hard he’s hanging on to the headboard at this rate. “Greg,” he whines, needing to come, needing release. When he looks down he realizes to his utter mortification that he has been leaking precome, all over his cock, even into Greg’s hair. “Greg,” he says, more insistent, tears in his eyes.

Greg shuffles so they can look at each other, he looks warm and radiant, happy beyond belief, and ends up urging Mycroft to shift so he can take his cock into his mouth. Hums when he does. Mycroft leans his forehead onto his arm, looking at Greg’s face as he sucks and licks. Greg’s hand trails up the back of his leg, and starts playing with slick skin, pushing one, then two fingertips in, moving them around each other carefully.

“Deeper,” Mycroft urges, knowing he’ll come from just looking into Greg’s eyes at this point, “I’m – very close.”

Greg hums, and the vibration does things to Mycroft, making his stomach clench, his thighs tremble. “Very,” he manages, and then he’s coming, deep in Greg’s mouth, Greg inside and all around. He folds down, unable to hold himself up anymore, careful to sit on Greg’s chest instead of somewhere tender.

“Shower,” is the first thought that comes back to his mind.

Greg hums and kisses his neck. “Good one.”

When they’re both being rained on by Mycroft’s shower, Mycroft finds himself leaning in for a cuddle. Greg lets him, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s waist, and they stand like that for far too long.

“My,” Greg urges eventually, “what shampoo can I use?” Mycroft blinks up at him and hands him a bottle of his, then uses the matching body wash for himself. They switch bottles and soon are hanging on to each other again, letting the water beat the soap from their bodies.

“I could sleep here,” Mycroft confesses, and Greg laughs but starts moving. After making sure there’s no more shampoo in their hair, he turns off the shower, grabs them both a towel, and even gets Mycroft his toothbrush. “Do you need to borrow anything?”

“If I could,” Greg grins, so Mycroft finds a clean head for his electric toothbrush.

“You can be yellow,” he decides. Beams up at Greg when he hears Greg chuckle. “I’m red.”

 

“I was always green at home,” Greg says, when they’re warm and clean and back in bed.

“Sherlock always wanted to be purple,” Mycroft admits, sleepy and fond. “Threw a fit when they didn’t have it, you can’t imagine the times I bought games just because they had the option to play as purple.”

“M glad we met,” Greg mumbles, apropos of nothing, and Mycroft freezes, then decides it’s time to be brave.

“I love you too.”


End file.
